The Philo Vance Megapack. S.S. Van Dine

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ all I can to assist you, if you will but indicate your desires.”

      “There’s no need to beat about the bush, Doctor,” said Markham. “I know that Miss Odell was a patient of yours for a long time; and I realize that it is highly possible, not to say probable, that she told you certain personal things which may have direct bearing on her death.”

      “But, my dear Mr.—,” Doctor Lindquist glanced ostentatiously at the card, “ah—Markham, my relations with Miss Odell were of a purely professional character.”

      “I had understood, however,” ventured Markham, “that, while what you say may be technically true, nevertheless there was an informality, let me say, in that relationship. Perhaps I may state it better by saying that your professional attitude transcended a merely scientific interest in her case.”

      I heard Vance chuckle softly; and I myself could hardly suppress a smile at Markham’s verbose and orbicular accusation. But Doctor Lindquist, it seemed, was in no wise disconcerted. Assuming an air of beguiling pensiveness, he said: “I will confess, in the interests of strict accuracy, that during my somewhat protracted treatment of her case, I came to regard the young woman with a certain—shall I say, fatherly liking? But I doubt if she was even aware of this mild sentiment on my part.”

      The corners of Vance’s mouth twitched slightly. He was sitting with drowsy eyes, watching the doctor with a look of studious amusement.

      “And she never at any time told you of any private or personal affairs that were causing her anxiety?” persisted Markham.

      Doctor Lindquist pyramided his fingers, and appeared to give the question his undivided thought.

      “No, I can’t recall a single statement of that nature.” His words were measured and urbane. “I know, naturally, in a general way, her manner of living; but the details, you will readily perceive, were wholly outside my province as a medical consultant. The disorganization of her nerves was due—so my diagnosis led me to conclude—to late hours, excitement, irregular and rich eating—what, I believe, is referred to vulgarly as going the pace. The modern woman, in this febrile age, sir—”

      “When did you see her last, may I ask?” Markham interrupted impatiently.

      The doctor made a pantomime of eloquent surprise.

      “When did I see her last?… Let me see.” He could, apparently, recall the occasion only with considerable difficulty. “A fortnight ago, perhaps—though it may have been longer. I really can’t recall.… Shall I refer to my files?”

      “That won’t be necessary,” said Markham. He paused and regarded the doctor with a look of disarming affability. “And was this last visit a paternal or merely a professional one?”

      “Professional, of course.” Doctor Lindquist’s eyes were impassive and only mildly interested; but his face, I felt, was by no means the unedited reflection of his thoughts.

      “Did the meeting take place here or at her apartment?”

      “I believe I called on her at her home.”

      “You called on her a great deal, Doctor—so I am informed—and at rather unconventional hours.… Is this entirely in accord with your practice of seeing patients only by appointment?”

      Markham’s tone was pleasant; but from the nature of his question I knew that he was decidedly irritated by the man’s bland hypocrisy, and felt that he was deliberately withholding relevant information.

      Before Doctor Lindquist could reply, however, the butler appeared at the door and silently indicated an extension telephone on a taboret beside the desk. With an unctuously murmured apology, the doctor turned and lifted the receiver.

      Vance took advantage of this opportunity to scribble something on a piece of paper and pass it surreptitiously to Markham.

      His call completed, Doctor Lindquist drew himself up haughtily and faced Markham with chilling scorn.

      “Is it the function of the district attorney,” he asked distantly, “to harrass respectable physicians with insulting questions? I did not know that it was illegal—or even original, for that matter—for a doctor to visit his patients.”

      “I am not discussing now”—Markham emphasized the adverb—“your infractions of the law; but since you suggest a possibility which, I assure you, was not in my mind, would you be good enough to tell me—merely as a matter of form—where you were last night between eleven and twelve?”

      The question produced a startling effect. Doctor Lindquist became suddenly like a tautly drawn rope, and rising slowly and stiffly, he glared, with cold intense venom, at the district attorney. His velvety mask had fallen off; and I detected another emotion beneath his repressed anger: his expression cloaked a fear, and his wrath but partly veiled a passionate uncertainty.

      “My whereabouts last night is no concern of yours.” He spoke with great effort, his breath coming and going noisily.

      Markham waited, apparently unmoved, his eyes riveted on the trembling man before him. This calm scrutiny completely broke down the other’s self-control.

      “What do you mean by forcing yourself in here with your contemptible insinuations?” he shouted. His face, now livid and mottled, was hideously contorted; his hands made spasmodic movements; and his whole body shook as with a tremor. “Get out of here—you and your two myrmidons! Get out, before I have you thrown out!”

      Markham, himself enraged now, was about to reply, when Vance took him by the arm.

      “The doctor is gently hinting that we go,” he said. And with amazing swiftness he spun Markham round and led him firmly out of the room.

      When we were again in the taxicab on our way back to the club, Vance sniggered gaily. “A sweet specimen, that! Paranoia. Or, more likely, manic-depressive insanity—the folie circulaire type: recurring periods of maniacal excitement alternating with periods of the clearest sanity, don’t y’ know. Anyway, the doctor’s disorder belongs in the category of psychoses—associated with the maturation or waning of the sexual instinct. He’s just the right age, too. Neurotic degenerate—that’s what this oily Hippocrates is. In another minute he would have attacked you.… My word! It’s a good thing I came to the rescue. Such chaps are about as safe as rattlesnakes.”

      He shook his head in a mock discouragement.

      “Really, y’ know, Markham, old thing,” he added, “you should study the cranial indications of your fellow man more carefully—vultus est index animi. Did you, by any chance, note the gentleman’s wide rectangular forehead, his irregular eyebrows, and pale luminous eyes, and his outstanding ears with their thin upper rims, their pointed tragi and split lobes?… A clever devil, this Ambroise—but a moral imbecile. Beware of those pseudopyriform faces, Markham; leave their Apollonian Greek suggestiveness to misunderstood women.”

      “I wonder what he really knows?” grumbled Markham irritably.

      “Oh, he knows something—rest assured of that! And if only we knew it, too, we’d be considerably further along in the investigation. Furthermore, the information he is hiding is somewhat unpleasantly connected with himself. His euphoria is a bit shaken. He frightfully overdid the grand manner; his valedict’ry fulmination was the true expression of his feeling toward us.”

      “Yes,” СКАЧАТЬ